There’s something you should know about the bagel.
One day, in the early part of the 19th century. Yenkl, the son of the rabbi of the small shtetl of Schmaltz, somewhere that no longer exists in Poland, sat alone in the back of the bakery. Yenkl was the fourth son of Rabbi Moshe Spassoff, a man revered and beloved by his students. But Yenkl, hard as he tried, didn’t love his father, mostly because he couldn’t believe that his father loved him, however much he professed to.
You see, Yenkl was not as intelligent, or as good-looking as any of his three brothers. In fact Yenkl was treated as something of a half-wit by most of the small community, even though they did this covertly so as not to offend the rabbi. Yenkl was also inclined to stoutness unusual in the ghetto that lived not far above subsistence level, so he was seen as lazy and greedy.
The truth was that Yenkl was neither laxy nor greedy, nor was he an idiot. The truth was that Yenkl was a dreamer, a romantic, a visionary. He was also gentle, kind and , although nobody could have imagained it, very determined.
Yenkle was the baker’s assistant. He was not, like Rabbi Spassoff’s eldest son, destined to become a rabbi He was unlikely, like the rabbi’s second son, to become a tailor with his own sewing room. And as for following the example of the third son who had travelled to Warsaw and joined an orchestra, this was unthinkable.
No; Yenkl was the baker’s assistant, and that’s what he’d always be. At 26 years old, he was stuck. Most men of his age were settled in whatever was to be their lot in life. Most men of his age were married with several children. Even the matchmaker had given up.
“Yenkele,” she moaned at him, “look at you. You’re a schlemiel and a schlock. What kind of family am I going to find who’ll want their daughter to marry you, even if you are the rabbi’s son?”
But Yenkl took no notice. He knew what he wanted. At the other end of the village, almost outside the ghetto of Schmaltz, lived the woman he loved.
Shoshanna was nearly 30 and unmarried, almost unheard of in their community. Her parents, who’d come to Schmaltz ten years before, having survived a pogrom in a neighbouring Jewish settlement, had both died, and she now lived alone. Shoshanna had one clear physical characteristic. There was no doubt about it; Shoshanna was fat. Her stomach swung from side to side as she walked; her breasts bounced like the milk cow’s udders, and her head seemed to sink through several chins into her neck.
Yet Yenkl loved Shoshanna. Not because she was fat, but because she understood him. Shoshanna had taken to stopping by the bakery when the baker was on his rounds, knowing when Yenkl would be alone. She was the one who listened to Yenkl’s dreams, who told him he was a romantic, who admired his vision. She was the one who acknowledged his gentleness, his determination. She was the only one.
So that one day; the day I started telling you about, when he sat alone in the back of the bakery, Yenkl began his experiment.
There were two kinds of bread in Schmaltz. There were two kinds of brad anywhere in the Diaspora as far as Yenkl knew. There was the black, coarse-grained bread eaten on six days of the week, and the twisted, plaited, soft white challah, sometimes with an egg yolk added and glazed with the egg white, eaten especially on the Sabbath according to ancient Jewish tradition.
It was just after midnight following the Sabbath. The baker always left Yenkl to start up the baking at this time, preferring to stay in bed until 4:00a.m. Sundays,, since he usually drank too much wine the previous evening. Yenkl had mixed the dough. Not the usual grainy mix, but the mixture used for the challah. Now e was going to try his experiment. The ovens were lit, and Yenkl had also filled two of Shoshanna’s large pots with water, which was now boiling on top of the stove. He kneaded the dough and broke off a loaf-sized flob, rolling and pummelling it into a loaf about the size and shape of a sheep’s bladder.
Yenkl made two loaves like this, dropped each into a pot of boiling water, and watched with fascination as the dough seemed to come to a shining new life of its own. Two minutes seemed to be enough. Yenkl fished out the loaves with a fiant wooden spatuala, laid them on the tray to rest and made two more. When he had made twenty, he put this first batch into the ovens and started the boiling process again. In three hours he had made the ususal amount for the whole village. The people of Schmaltz were going to have something new.
At 4:35 in the morning the baker came into the bakery.
“Oy, what a head I got this morning,” he said. “That Mendele; I tell you, he drinks more than is good for both of us. And you think I could let him do it alone? His wife would never let me hear the last of it.”
The baker looked up and spied the shining loaves lining the trays. He took another look. He went closer. He picked one up.
“What have you done, Yenkl? Where’s my brad? What are those lumps of bricks fit for only building pyramids? You’ve ruined me. I’ll be the laughting stock of Schmaltz. Oh my head. Oh my heart,” and he sat heavily on the bench and thrust his head into his hands.
The rabbi came in at 4:45 to bless the bread and discovered the baker pacing up and down ranting at Yenkl, who sat on a stool in the corner, smiling and nodding. At 4:55, the first customer arrived. She was Shoshanna, always the first although she lived the furthest away, a good twenty minutes walk for her.
Yenkl stood up and went over to his father, ignoring both the baker and Shoshanna, although he had to squeeze past her in the small shop.
“Father,” he said, “I know that things are different today. I am asking you for two blessings; one for the bread, and one for me to marry Shoshanna.”
Now Yenkl knew that the rabbi, in his wisdom, had little time for Shoshanna, and the only time Yenkl mentioned her before, had told him that she was not a woman to be trusted, since she chose to remain independent of the community. He had not wanted to listen to Yenkl then. Now he was going to.
Rabbi Moshe Spassoff was never lost for words. This time was no different.
“Yenkl my son; my Yenkele. First, since that’s the order you make your request, let us consider this bread. This bread,” and he picked up a loaf, broke off a piece with some difficulty and dropped the remainder onto the tray where it landed with a wincing thud, “this bread,” and he placed a small wad into his cheeks, chewing thoughtfully, “this bread is not the bread of our fathers. Tjhis bread is hard to ear, hard to swallow and, I suspect, indigestible. I cannot in truth bless this bread. As to your second request,” and here he eyed Shoshanna, who wobbled uncomfortably under his scrutiny, “as for marrying Shoshanna, I fear that the same is true. It’s hard to swallow. I’msorry, my son.”
Yenkl had anticipated this. And he was ready.
“Father; you may find it hard to swallow, but I ask only that you do what is in our tradition when we are faced with anything different; that you consult with the Almighty, and that His test will be the response that His people make. I am asking that you wait until my bread has been tried by the whole village. Bless it for just this day. If one person says that they do not like it, then we can forget the whole thing. But if everyone loves this bread then you can bless it for the future and also bless me and my bride.”
It was the longest speech he had ever made. He omitted to say that he would marry Shoshanna, blessing or not. He had already discussed this with he and they had agreed it would not be wise to mention it.
To his surporise, the rabbi agreed, tugging at his beard thoughtfully, nodding, his head tilted to one side and gazing at his son in some wonder.
“Very well, Yenkele; if tomorrow morning at eight o’clock everyone; everyone make you, is delighted with this bread then it receives my blessing. As for your betrothal, I will give that my blessing also.”
By eight that morning every member of Schmaltz had been into the bakery and left grumbling, with a loaf of the new bread. One or two had threatened to throw the loaf at Yenkl; most had gesticulated, complaining at the weight, the texture, the colour, anything that made it differnet. A knot the size of a turnip developed in Yenkl’s stomach; the baker stomped up and down, his face the colour of liver, apologizing to his customers, threatening Yenkl with an additional circumcision.
The next morning, Yenkl made the usual, dark bread under the baker’s watchful eye. Except that he had slipped in a sample of the challah mix for his own use later.
Shoshanna did not appear at her usual time. But at 5:00a.am. there was already a line of people waiting to come into the bakery.
“Wonderful bread that, Yenkl; any more today?”
“Why dont’t you always make that bread, Yenkl?”
“how did you discover that bread, Yenkl? You must have had the recipe from your brother in Warsaw.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have any mroe? The whole family loved it.”
“Well, I’m glad he has no more today. It should be a special treat. We get little to look forward to, and this should be for special occasions.”
And so it went on. Every person who came in loved it, wanted more or asked him for the secret. The baker and the rabbi sat in the corner and watched open-mouthed. By 7:00a.m. the whole village had come to say how wonderful the bread was, most going away disappointed that there was no more, hoping, even demanding that there would be. Everyone except for Shoshanna. She had not appeared.
At eight o’clock the rabbi was as good as his word.
“Very well, Yenkl. I will bless any of this bread that you make in future. And if you are still determined to go ahead, I will give you and Soshanna my blessing too. When do you wish to get married?”
Yenkl’s eyes glinted.
“This morning,” he said. “As soon as Shsoshanna arrives. We have two hours.”
While the baker and the rabbi accompanied each other on a circuitous and increasingly riotous tour of the village, Yenkl began work on making a ring for his beloved.
By ten o’clock, the whole shtetl knew. Everyone crammed into the small billage square where they always held their festivities and their meetings. Volunteers raised the canopy, wine was collected, the musicians had gathered and were already playing. Yenkl and his father the rabbi stood together in front of the assembly. At 10:15, Shoshanna made her entrance, late enough for the crowd to start tittering and wondering, not too late for Yenkl to start panicking. She wafted through the people as they parted for her like the Red Sea. She carried her bulk clad in a tent-like dress that brought her a crace and graciousness that no-one, except for Yenkl, had ever noticed before.
The rabbi blessed the bride and bridegroom, performed the wedding rites and invited Yenkl to place a ring on his wife’s forefinger.
Yenkl dug his hand deep inside his coat pocket, pulled out a newly-baked shiny bread ring, and held it in the air for all to see.
“The ring is to be the token of our union. My wife and I will have a new one every day. Every day I will pledge myself again to her. And I invite all the people of Schmaltz to take part in their own ceremony of pledging ourselves to each other.”
And that’s what they did.
Of course, as we all know, the Yiddish for ‘ring’ is ‘bagel’.
Diaspora: the countries settled in by the Jews after their dispersion from Israel by the Romans two thousand years ago.
Ghetto: a settlement, usually enclosed, for people of one ethnic background.
There were many Jewish ghettos in Eastern Europe and elsewhere during the 18th and 19th centuries. Perhaps the most infamous of the 20th century was the Warsaw ghetto in the 1940’s into which thousands of Jews were herded and later perished; the end of an era.
Pogrom: a murderous attack on the Jewish community.
Schlemiel: a nerd, a dolt, a dope, a bit of an idiot, half-witted (get my drift?).
Schlock: untidy person.
Shtetl: a small rural Jewish community village.
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